


Brothers in Arms (4/5)

by totheletter



Series: Brothers In Arms [4]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M, San Francisco Giants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totheletter/pseuds/totheletter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Opening Day has finally arrived. The guys relish the chance to focus on baseball instead of the persistent questions surrounding them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers in Arms (4/5)

**Disclaimer:** This is, quite simply, not true. Not a word.

\----- 

"You know where we went wrong?" Sandy said.

"We didn't obtain the photo," Joel replied.

"We didn't obtain the photo."

"And we take full responsibility for that. In retrospect, that may have been crucial--"

" _I OUGHTA KILL BOTH OF YOU!_ " Sabean roared. He threw his desk phone across the room. It smashed against the wall, shattering into pieces and taking a few framed photos with it. "Three hours ago, I stood out there and told the world two of this team's biggest assets are about to make history, and not the good kind. And you come in here and tell me IT WAS FOR NOTHING?"

Joel put his hands up defensively. "I understand you're upset. We're mortified. Just _mortified_ , Sabes. This one's on us."

"On you--ON YOU! You jackass! This is on all of us!"

"We can fix this," Sandy said.

"You've done quite enough," Sabean said. "You are _beyond_ fired. Get your stuff, and be out of the stadium in twenty minutes."

The two media relations experts exchanged sheepish looks and stood up from their chairs. They exited the room without a word.

The intercom on Sabean's desk buzzed. "Mr. Sabean, it's MLB Network on line one again. ESPN's still holding on two."

Sabean looked at the pile of gray plastic and wires amid shattered glass and broken frames. He pressed the talk button. "Susan, tell them to call back. My phone is currently out of order."

*****

Buster's blood ran cold. "You're kidding me. Please tell me you're kidding me."

Bochy looked ashen. "'Fraid not, kid. Someone screwed up."

Posey took off his cap and placed it on his knee. He ran his hands through his hair. "I...I don't even have words right now."

Bochy grasped the catcher's shoulder. "I know. I'm sorry. I really am."

Buster just shook his head and sighed. "Have you told Madison yet?"

"Rags is telling him right now."

"That's gonna go over well."

Bochy nodded. "I wish we could turn back the clock, but all we can do is just go on forward. Tomorrow's Opening Day, and we gotta be ready for whatever's coming this way."

Buster knew Bochy meant whatever games were coming their way, but he couldn't help but read a double meaning for himself and Madison.

"Anyway," Bochy said, rising from his chair, "Take a few minutes in here. Get yourself together. We're gonna run some drills in about twenty minutes."

The manager stepped out of his office and closed the door behind him. Buster put his head in his hands. He felt like he was going to vomit. Someone knocked on the door.

"Boch isn't in here," Buster said.

The door opened anyway. "It's me," Madison said.

"Oh, hey." Buster stood up, hugging Bumgarner tightly. "You okay?"

"I'm angry," Madison replied. "I'm hurt. And...I'm scared. I guess I don't know what I am."

"Welcome to the club."

"How could they have not known?"

"They just didn't," Buster said. "Here, sit down."

The two of them took a seat on Bochy's sofa. Madison folded his hands together, clenching them until his knuckles turned white. "What're we supposed to do?"

Buster put an arm around Madison's shoulders. "We can't fall apart. Not now. We've come this far, and most of the guys are with us. They've got our back. The only thing we can do is go out there and play. It's what we have to do."

Madison put his elbows on his knees, his hands supporting his head. "It's just one thing after another, isn't it?"

Buster kissed the top of Madison's head. "Maybe this is the last thing for a while, huh?"

"I hope so."

Practice that afternoon went very well, considering the media storm that now threatened to burst down the gates at AT&T Park and spill onto the field. Players were hounded on their way into the park, but stuck to their promise not to talk about Buster and Madison. They'd be happy to talk about the season, they said. The rotation, the infield, the outfield -- anything but the only topic reporters wanted to hear about.

Posey looked good at BP, and his ankle gave him no real trouble as he bounced out of his crouch to practice throwing out baserunners. Madison was pretty sharp, though that came as a surprise to no one. They both looked good. For the first time, Bochy could put the press conferences and interviews and scandal out of his mind and see a stellar season shaping up for his Giants. It was a good feeling. He called the team in for a talk. The Giants surrounded him, and he felt the anticipation of Opening Day coursing through the air.

"You guys are probably as pumped about this as I am," he began. "And I'm gonna keep this short, because I want you to go home and get some sleep. Big day ahead of us. We all know 2011 didn't work out the way we'd hoped. That's all right. It's baseball. But this year, we got our catcher back. We got Freddy, we got Pablo in good shape. Huff, I know you been workin' your ass off in the offseason, and it shows. Belt, you're comin' up strong. Keep it up. Tim -- well, you just keep being Tim."

The team laughed.

"54 years went by between World Series championships. I'll be damned if it's going to take another 54. Win this thing. BP starts at 4:45, first pitch at 7:15. Let's kick some rattlesnake ass back to Arizona."

The clubhouse was busy as the Giants changed back into street clothes for the night. Buster was operating on autopilot as he took off his uniform, tossing the garments into a laundry hamper nearby. He slid off his compression shorts and jockstrap, grabbed a bar of soap, and headed for the showers. It was an action he'd performed hundreds of times before, and he didn't think anything of it until he reached the door. Wilson, Vogelsong, Jonny Sanchez and Cody Ross were visible through the steam. They were in the midst of some conversation when Buster walked in. The talk ceased and all eyes turned toward him. It took him a second to figure out why.

He backed up a little, making a move toward the entrance. His face was beet red. "I, um...I can come back later..."

"What the fuck, dude," Wilson said, flicking water in Posey's direction. "Get in here. We won't bite."

" _We_ won't," Vogelsong said, "But Weez just might."

"You guys aren't concerned about...y'know..."

"Shit, man," Ross said. "How many times have we showered together? You and Bumgarner have never tried to jump me before. No reason to see why you'd start now."

Buster still stood near the edge of the tile floor, away from the other guys. "You sure?"

"Yes, we're sure," Vogelsong replied. "Quit stalling."

Buster stepped under a nozzle and turned on the stream of hot water. A few minutes later, the players heard the familiar squeak of flip-flops on the floor. The sound stopped abruptly.

"Oh, you know what," Bumgarner said. "I can come back later..."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Would the two of you stop acting like we're made of barbed wire and _get your ass in here?_ We don't have time to go through this every time we have to shower."

Buster turned toward Madison. "It's fine."

Cody twisted his head back a little and looked at his own ass. "Thank you. I thought I saw you admiring it the other day."

Buster looked shocked. "That's not -- I didn't mean --"

"I'm kidding! I'm kidding!"

Buster forced a canned laugh, and looked at Bumgarner. The pitcher looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Buster knew the feeling.

*****

Buster woke up with a start. He gripped the sheets tightly in his fists as he panted heavily. It was that damn nightmare again. He was falling from some great height, unable to stop himself. The ground rushed up toward him as he flailed, unable to grasp anything that might arrest the plunge. Buster looked over to Bumgarner's side of the bed and found it empty. Puzzled, he got out of bed and walked down the hallway toward he living room. Madison was sitting on the couch, his laptop balanced on an armrest. The pitcher's face was blank. His index finger traced lines over the computer's touchpad as he scrolled through an article.

"Jesus, Bum. What time is it?"

Bumgarner didn't look up. "5:45."

"Come back to bed."

"I'm not sleepy. Buster, have you been reading the stories about us?"

Posey shook his head. "Absolutely not. And you shouldn't be, either."

"You need to hear some of these quotes."

"I don't think so."

"'If these guys had come out when I was still on the team, we might have had a big problem in that clubhouse.'"

"Who said that?"

"Rowand."

Buster couldn't quite believe his ears. "Rowand? He's been out of baseball since we cut him loose last year. Why would any reporter want to talk to that guy?"

"It's right here. _Chicago Tribune_." Madison said. "Rowand went on to say that he respected the contributions Bumgarner, 22, and Posey, 23, made to the Giants' World Series victory in 2010. But, he added, a major league team with openly gay players 'is just asking for trouble.' 'I don't want to get myself in hot water,' Rowand said, 'But if these guys had come out when I was still on the team, we might have had a big problem in that clubhouse.' He also warned of possible violent behavior from opposing teams."

"You shouldn't be reading this stuff, Bum."

Bumgarner ignored him. "Here's another one: 'Marlins manager Ozzie Guillen told _Baseball Tonight_ host Karl Ravech he would quit managing a team that featured an openly gay player.' And those are the nicer reactions."

"I'm not kidding. You shouldn't--"

"On the plus side, C.J. Wilson tweeted that he's proud of us. So there's that."

"Madison, listen to me. Today is Opening Day. Our season opens in fourteen hours. This is what we've been waiting for. You've got to get your head on the field, where it belongs. This stuff, this _junk_ , is a distraction."

Bumgarner rubbed his eyes and yawned. "I know. But there's one more: 'They told me not to say anything about it.'"

"Who said that?"

The dim, blue light of the computer monitor made Bumgarner's face seem even more melancholy when he responded. "Belt."

*****

Buster caught Tim Lincecum's warm-up tosses in the bullpen. He could hear fans shouting his name, and so could Tim. Lincecum cracked a smile and hurled a fastball, hitting Posey's glove with a crisp _thwack_. The catcher closed his mitt around the ball, loving the feel of it. He shook off the dull sting and tossed the ball back to Lincecum. He was relieved to worry about the game for a change, and not reporters, questions and opinions from his peers. It was him, Lincecum and a stitched white sphere. As it should have been.

Lincecum signaled that he was done. Posey stood and removed his mask. Lincecum jogged down from the mound and gripped Posey's wrist. "You feel it, man? It's electric. Fuck, I love Opening Day."

"So do I."

The two men began the trek back to the dugout, ready to join the rest of the team for lineups and introductions. They both turned around when they heard Buster's name being called from the stands. A group of unusually fashionable guys leaned out over the low wall above the warning track, waving.

"Hey, hot stuff!" one called out.

"Lookin' good out there!" cried another.

A third yelled, "Show us your squat!"

Buster's face turned red. Lincecum doubled over with laughter.

"You can't say this city doesn't love you," Lincecum said, slapping Posey on the back. He picked up his gait and ran toward the dugout. "Let's kick some ass!"

_"Number 13, Cody Ross!"_

The crowd cheered as Ross stepped out of line and tipped his cap. The team stood along the third base line as they were introduced in numerical order. Mike Fontenot came next, then Beltran and Huff. Buster bit at his lip nervously, not knowing exactly what reaction he'd face when the PA announcer called his name. He didn't have long to find out.

_"Number 28, Buster Posey!"_

The place went nuts. Posey was astonished at the cheers that greeted his name, though his more skeptical side believed it had more to do with the city re-gaining its star catcher than his unintentional trailblazing. He was more than okay with that.

The game was barely into its second inning when Buster ripped a changeup into the seats above the right field wall. That shot gave the Giants a nice three-run cushion. Belt and Sandoval were already waiting when Buster crossed home. Pablo whooped and slapped Buster's batting helmet. Posey glanced at Belt and said, "Pretty good for a queer, huh?" Surprised by the outburst, Belt couldn't think of a reply.

After receiving backslaps and high-fives from his teammates, Buster grabbed some water and joined Bumgarner up on the dugout railing. He took a sip and sighed. "So...did I miss anything?"

Someone tapped on Buster's shoulder. He turned around to see Bochy. The skipper gestured back toward the television well of the dugout. "You got a minute to talk?"

"To who?"

" _Wednesday Night Baseball_."

"But you said--"

"I know. And I know I can trust you not to say anything stupid. Go on. You got my blessing."

Buster turned back to Bumgarner, who smiled and nodded. Buster crumpled the paper cup and tossed it onto the floor as he followed Bochy back down to the TV camera. The cameraman handed Posey a headphone/microphone set and instructed him to wait.

There was no monitor, so Buster could hear what the broadcasters were saying, but he couldn't see them. He stared into the lens of the television camera and listened as the producer cued the booth. The voice that came thorough sounded like that of Dave O'Brien.

_"--joining us from the dugout. Buster, you lost virtually all of last season to that serious ankle injury. Didn't, uh, look like it was hurting tonight!"_

Buster smiled. "Yeah, no, it felt great. And as you can see, things are going pretty well. I feel fine."

_"What a way to announce your comeback!"_

"Hey, listen," Buster replied. "The D-backs won the NL West last year. They're strong, they've got a good bullpen, good bats at the plate. I'm not saying _anything_ until this game is over."

_"Buster, Nomar here. I gotta ask you about the biggest story of the season so far: Your coming out and some of the reaction surrounding it."_

"Look, I know people are fascinated by this, but I'm not talking about the reaction. I haven't been reading all that stuff. I'm here to play the game."

Garciaparra tried a different angle. _"A lot of people are going to be watching you tonight because they say gay men can't play sports nearly as well as straight guys."_

"I would dispute that," Buster said, smiling wryly.

_"How's your partner, Madison Bumgarner?"_

"It been a tough week for both of us, but we're doing fine. He's a strong guy, and I can't wait to see him light 'em up when he starts next week."

O'Brien chuckled. _"Okay, fair enough. You probably can't see it right now, Buster, but both of us are up here in the booth giving you a thumbs-up. Good luck. Thanks for talking with us."_

"Wow. Thank you, guys. That means a lot."

Still, Buster knew not to expect a universally positive reaction. During the team switch at the middle of the sixth inning, an object flew from the stands onto the warning track. Cody Ross studied it on his way in from left field, and waved Posey over. The object had broken on impact, but Buster could see a tiny World Series trophy in the debris. An arm and a foot lay nearby. Part of a torso carried a Giants uniform logo. Buster stooped to pick up the largest piece.

A tiny smile and blank eyes beamed back at him. It was the head of a Buster Posey bobblehead, snapped off when someone tossed it from the stands. Someone used a silver marker to scrawl "FAG" on the figure's black Giants cap.

Ross scowled at it. "That is some creepy shit right there."

"Tell me about it," Posey muttered.

After the game, Buster and Madison went out for coffee with Cain and Jeremy Affeldt. Affeldt raised his latte and said, "To putting one victory in the books."

Cain tapped his insulated cup against Affeldt's. "And 161 to go."

Buster looked over at Bumgarner, who was sporting a milk-foam mustache. Posey dragged a thumb across his partner's lip and smiled. "Got a little on ya, there." He suddenly froze, remembering who he was with. He looked to Cain and Affeldt, who wore amused grins.

"You don't have to be self-conscious," Affeldt said, taking a sip of his beverage. "That particular cat's already out of the bag."

"You looked good out there today," Cain said. "If you're feeling the pressure, I couldn't tell."

Bumgarner slurped on his hot chocolate. "He spent an hour throwin' up before we went to the ballpark."

Buster shot him a dirty glance. "What?" Bumgarner said. "It's true."

Posey looked down at his drink. "I was a little nervous."

"I would've been, too," Affeldt said. "But I think things worked out very well."

Posey looked skeptical. "Tonight, they did. 161 to go."

The weight of the statement sank in, and all four men grew quiet.

"Sorry," Posey said. "Didn't mean to be a buzzkill."

"Nah," Cain replied. "You two will be fine. This hype's going to die down, and the sports guys'll find something else to talk about for a while."

Affeldt tapped his watch. "Listen, I need to..."

Cain stood up and stretched. "Yeah, me too. We'll see you guys tomorrow."

Buster and Madison waved as Cain and Affeldt made their way out of the coffee shop. The two pitchers walked down a steep sidewalk to their cars. Cain looked up into the pinkish-gray sky.

"You know, I like this city," he said. "But I miss seeing the stars. Too much light here."

Affeldt nodded. "Hey. Do really think that's true? That the buzz will die down?"

Cain slowed a little, thinking about his answer. "J, I have no idea. We're not in the driver's seat. We're just along for the ride."


End file.
